


The Asylum's Laughter

by PrincessGemma12



Series: The Queen [1]
Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson is Robin, Doctor/Patient, During Canon, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Gun Violence, Harleen Quinzel (DCU) Played by Margot Robbie, Harleen Quinzel Backstory, How Do I Tag, Joker (DCU) Has Issues, Joker (DCU) Played by Jared Leto, Joker's Shock Therapy Method (Suicide Squad 2016), Mental Coercion, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Mentioned Bruce Wayne, Mentioned Dick Grayson, Mentioned Pamela Isley, Mentioned other characters - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), My First Work in This Fandom, Pining, Pining Joker (DCU), Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Suicide Squad (2016), Psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel, Slow Burn, This fandom needs more tags for HQ, Unhealthy Relationships, sort of??? I guess???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24514180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessGemma12/pseuds/PrincessGemma12
Summary: If there was one thing Harleen Quinzel never thought she’d do, it was treat a patient as difficult as the Joker. Never even considered treating him in the first place, didn’t think she had it in her—more importantly, she didn’t think anyone else thought she had it in her. Even more than any of that was the fact that she never thought she’d break the code of conduct for her dream career.God, was she wrong.
Relationships: Harleen Quinzel & Original Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Series: The Queen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772614
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	The Asylum's Laughter

Looking up at the tall stone walls, slate grey with dull green from age and rain, and the inevitable growth of algae and mold and slime buildup, the young psychiatrist tightened her grip on the handles of her motorcycle.

_Deep breaths, deep breaths._

As the iron-wrought gate opened with a nerve-wracking squeal and creak, the blonde kicked off, squeezing the accelerator as she leaned forward, anxious panting fogging up her helmet visor. She swung into the parking lot, just outside the asylum, and killed the ignition. The kickstand was kicked down and the bike safely leaned onto it as the young woman removed her black and red helmet.

Blonde waves were shaken out and fingered, knots gently tugged into extinction. Once satisfied, the doctor ( _Doctor_ _!_ She couldn’t believe it.) dismounted her motorbike, adjusted the black duffle bag over her shoulder, took one last deep breath, and made for the door.

The sight inside the psychiatric hospital was less dreary than the one outside. Patients of various ages and illnesses walked down the hallways to her left and right, always accompanied by one or more armed guards and always in cuffs locking their hands to their ankles. Two or three were locked tight in straight-jackets of varying shades of off-white. Several scruffy, dirty looking men stopped to eye her with sneering lust or murderous intent, only to be shoved by a guard or kicked in the back of the shin. She shuddered, gulping noisily as the reality of where she was started to set in. She’d known Arkham was dangerous, full of literal psychopaths and homicidal maniacs, many of which she knew suffered from Schizophrenia, bi-polar personality disorder, multiple personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, sociopathic personality disorder, and sometimes even a combination of such illnesses, but seeing what many referred to as “Gotham’s worst of the worst list” was an experience unlike any other. Reading about it, watching the news, looking at pictures and files and biographies, nothing could have prepared her for standing in the same room as some of the most dangerous criminals in her state.

Maybe she really was in over her head.

_Stop that! You’re FINE—now stop being a baby and find Dr. Berd._

Striding up to the receptionist, the young woman introduced herself.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I’m looking for Dr. Johnathan Berd’s office,” she stated clearly, back straight and shoulders square, head held high. Her voice wavered slightly as she spoke, drawing the receptionist’s pitying gaze from the computer screen in front of him, to her slightly pale face.

“Hello, Doctor. You must be the new one John’s been talking about, huh? Top of your class, recommended by some of the best psychiatrists and psychologists in the state… You’re a real overachiever, ay?” he complimented, unflinching as a fit of screaming sounded from down the left hall. Harleen, however, jumped halfway out of her pumps. He merely chuckled. “You get used it, I promise. Dr. Berd’s office is down the right hall, up the stairs past the visiting room, fifteenth door on the right. Can you remember that, do ya’ think?” he gestured with a pencil vaguely, concern etched into his young face. He couldn’t have been much older than her, early thirties, maybe, probably about twenty-nine…

“Yeah, yeah, I think I can do it.” She nodded. Another deep breath. “Thank you, Mister…?”

“Just call me Carl.”

“Carl. Thank you, Carl.” She bowed her head in appreciation, smiling weakly. “Will I see you at the end of the day? I get off at five and you’re officially my very first acquaintance.”

Grinning broadly, the man jerked his head in the direction she would be traveling. “It’s no problem, Doc. Have fun, if you can, alright?”

“Alright.” She agreed, setting off for Berd’s office.

Down the hall to the right, past the packed visiting room, up the stairs and to the large oak door, Harleen walked slowly but not timidly, though her heart fluttered wildly in her chest and the beat of it resonated inside her eardrums. She knew she was being irrational, getting so worked up, knew it was a symptom of anxiety, but she also knew anxiety was perfectly natural in such a situation and that she was not possessed of a single mental disorder. She was having perfectly normal, human reactions to a stressful situation, that was all. There was no reason for her anxiety to make her more anxious.

_Just take deep breaths. Deep breaths._

She knocked, twice, and waited with bated breath for the man she had emailed all through last week to open the door. She waited…

…And waited…

…And waited some more…

“Dr. Berd?” she called, rapping her knuckles on the wood. “It’s me, Dr. Quinzel! Are you there?”

There was another minute of impatient and anxious waiting, then the door swung open to reveal a clean-faced man with a broad jaw and stout nose. His ruddy complexion was streaked with tears and his deep brown eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Harleen resisted the urge to bring attention to the goop peeking out from his nostrils.

“Miss Quinzel!” he greeted hoarsely, arms open as if for a hug. “I’m so glad you could make it alright, I know the drive from your apartment is tedious—please, please come in, come in.”

“Good day, Dr. Berd!” she returned. “But it’s _Doctor_ , not _Miss_ , please. The drive wasn’t any problem at all, most of the traffic was already passed, or going in the other direction, don’t’chu worry.”

The man’s face took on a darker red, making the young psychiatrist suppress a chuckle. Now was not the time for giggling and jokes. Now was the time for work, she reminded herself. He stepped aside to let her in.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t mean any disrespect.” He tried to amend, looking sheepish. “We don’t get many women here in general—most of the patients are male, as you know, and—please, sit, make yourself comfortable—it gets particularly stressful for ladies. Obvious reasons, I think, yes?” he pulled his desk chair out and sat, awaiting her reply.

Shaking her head slowly, Harleen smiled and sat down in one of the chairs opposite the desk. “No need to apologize, it’s alright. I definitely understand why most other women prefer to stay away from the Asylum completely. But someone has to take this case, regardless of sex, and I fully intend to be that person.” She stated simply.

“Right, well…” Berd fussed with his shirt collar a moment, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, then sneezing. Harleen flinched at the violence of the sneeze and the mess it left on the man’s sleeve.

“Bless you.”

“Thank… thank you,” he mumbled, fumbling with a handkerchief in his pocket. He wiped his nose with it, then his sleeve. “Oh, oh, I am sorry about that. I’ve got _terrible_ allergies this time of year, and Poison Ivy’s been just _murdering_ my street with her flowers and vines and shit.” There was a pause pregnant with tension and immediate guilt. “Uh… anyway— _ahem_ —I have a collection of cases here for you to work on—nothing too tedious or intense, so as not to stress you out too much during your first week or two. These patients will be getting transferred to lower-security prisons out of state in the next several weeks and need the usual therapy and medication prescriptions.” He riffled through a few drawers, drawing out unimpressive looking orange folders with off-white papers peeking out of them and cleanly scrawled writing on their faces. “These are only to get you into the swing of things, I promise—this is the same sort of stuff I started with when I was your age and I was thankful for it in the long run. I hope you will be, too, at least one day.” He paused to sneeze into his elbow again.

 _Gross_! Harleen cringed yet again at the mess that escaped his nostrils but calmly took the files away from him. There were three, each of them containing what she assumed would be information on extremely cooperative patients. She muttered a “Thank you” and watched as he furiously wiped at his shirt sleeve again. She felt compelled to ask when she’d be receiving more difficult cases. He turned back to her.

“Now, I know you probably feel undermined, maybe disappointed, offended, the regular shebang—” she did her best to not bristle and remain professional—“but I _promise_ _you_ , Dr. Quinzel, that you will be getting tougher cases soon. We have an unusual way of doing things here at Arkham, as I’m sure you’re aware, and this is your first time working here—as a psychiatrist or not. I have your best interest at heart, I swear, and I’m only trying to help you adjust faster with as little difficulty as possible.”

Dr. Quinzel sucked in a breath, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. _Be nice, be nice!_ She had a reputation to build, after all, and needed her first impressions to at least be favorable.

She chose her next words very carefully, hesitating and averting her eyes to the wall of tall windows looking out onto the back courtyard. Dr. Berd probably had the best office view in the building. She hoped she’d earn such a nice view during her time at the asylum, one day or another. “Doctor… where… when…” she huffed at herself for her own timidity. She licked her lips and drew in a deep breath. “When will I be dealing with more… appropriate patients, given my _academic_ reputation?”

“You’ll be treating one of our more difficult patients just as soon as we get him back.” Dr. Berd stated dramatically.

“And…” Harleen began hesitantly, seeing the frightened look in his eye. “Who might that be?”

Something akin to concern crossed his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and drawing his whole face toward the bridge of his nose. He sighed, dropping his hands to the desk. “You’ll be treating the Joker, Dr. Quinzel. Maybe you’ll have more luck with him than those before you.”

Something stopped working in Harleen’s brain then, something important. The Joker? He was assigning her to Gotham’s worst? Already? Before Joker was even readmitted?

She was confused beyond words and it must have shown on her face, for Berd said soothingly, “I have no doubt that you will be able to make some sort of a breakthrough with him. You were the top recommendation from the University and everyone I talked to about you said the exact same thing: put her on the clown’s case. So I will. I _am_. I have a contact in the police department that has a connection to Robin—you know, everyone calls ‘em Bat’s kid?—he says the Batman will have Joker back in here within two months—probably even less. I want you on his case but I won’t force you. I know you don’t have much experience under your belt, yet, but that’s why you’re starting with easier patients that are more likely to open up and less likely to plot your death in their sleep.” The joke pulled a small laugh from her and he continued, smiling wryly as his nose ran. “I lost my daughter to him, Dr. Quinzel, and so many others have lost people to him, too. But he’s sick, that’s all. You and I know that; I read your thesis paper. He needs _help_.”

“So… will ya’ take him?

“…Dr. Quinzel?”

“… _No_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! This is my first ever attempt at any sort of superhero story and I've never written any of these characters before, so I'm a little nervous. Constructive criticism is welcome!


End file.
